


The Other Side

by WhiteGloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Feels Guilty, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock is the bad guy, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteGloves/pseuds/WhiteGloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mycroft Holmes found himself speaking to the All-Omniscient one of both sides of the world after an incident that may change his brother as well as himself. (drabbling with that side) *brothermine *death (archives&fanfiction)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft's Side

***The Other Side***

**By: _WhiteGloves_**

_When speaking of the other side we know its tragic._

_This is Mycroft Holmes facing the real Omniscient one._

**Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

_Mycroft's side._

* * *

Everything was snow white.

And Mycroft Holmes was there in the centre, wearing his favourite light grey Prince of Wales three piece suits and dark tie patterned with goose in flight, standing alone in the middle and staring ahead in the whiteness with eyebrows not bothering to be raised. One look at his surrounding and he knows exactly where he is as he deduced it. He barely blinked before knowing. It didn't take him long to find the exact spot where to gaze too. As if knowing, without actually verifying, that someone was looking back. He knows exactly who he was speaking to. And just like that he addressed the whiteness in the stillness and peace and began...

"You must've hated me." He said aloud in his crisp tone that almost sounded natural for him, but then he surprisingly found his black umbrella in his hands. "Or perhaps not. Otherwise I won't have my favourite necessities with me right now. That's thoughtful of you. And oh—there's silence. I'll have to thank you for that. Perhaps I'll like this side after all. I had built my own place of comfort, as I am sure you are aware, given who you are—the uh, the Diogenes Club? But all inside of it was a fib design to escape the noisy reality of _terribly noisy people._ Very terrible. You couldn't imagine... or could you? Even without them speaking I can see everything... imagine the noise in the silence? It's anguish, really. Come to think of it, you must've hated me back then, making me see and hear what you yourself can see and hear... so I can get used to this place, your type of... peace? But just the same... _I know where I am._ Bit obvious, really. All white, all alone, no sensations... and you."

He raised his umbrella and pointed at where he was looking.

"Though, I believe, those reasons have been with me ever since on that side. In any case—there's no point in complaining, really. I am hardly such a child to snivel and tell you how unfair this all is. I'm not exactly young but I assure you I am still as promising as the youth that I was. And full of potential, mind you. So it's really rather selfish of you to suddenly pull me out of your world I was ruling. Or more like, I was _occupying temporarily._ Well, now that I think about it, it really is temporary. I told the few people who cared to mention that it was a temporary job but they never believed me. It's disheartening, I tell you. Like telling them I wasn't the Queen. Or do you much prefer another reference?"

He flashed a smirk. A very Mycroft-ish smirk. And then he started walking forward—forward the endless purity with his umbrella now carried by his right shoulder with his eyes fixed on the black shoes he had just noticed. His favourite shoes too.

"Just so we're clear as to not insult my given intelligence or yours—" he started again, eyes still on his shoes, "but I do remember everything. And when I say everything you can trust me it is _'the_ ' everything. If knowledge is a sin then I don't know what the sin is. Never mind that—I remember getting shot."

He looked up this time and the mask of indifference was ever plastered on his face.

"If I am accurate, which no doubt I am, there were two bullets that pierced my heart. At that very moment, I was struck by how it was amusing that the so called life-flashing-before your eyes came to me. It's not being overly sentimental, I can vouch memories flooding the brain had always been one of the wonders of the brain. I had one too many. You'd let me be vain with mine, wouldn't you?"

He raised an eyebrow but then, his eyes focused somewhere else as he leaned on his umbrella.

"I remember my brother shooting me."

It took awhile for silence to subside as Mycroft looked down at his hands holding his umbrella.

"Yes. My little brother killed me."

He brushed all airs as he started walking again and continued in a very casual tone—

"Not that it was surprising I always knew he would be the death of me, to be precise and honest about it. Given those flash-backs, most of it was about him. At any rate, why wouldn't it be? He had always been my constant concern. My ticking bomb. He knew that too, but it didn't stop him. I think he even mentioned if driving me crazy could kill me? Charming one, my baby brother. Death is but a trifle between us, having seen so many. Even causing ones... but at least I died before him and not the other way around. My heart wouldn't be able to... carry that had you taken him first. If I am being sentimental, it is because he is my only brother, you understand, of course? I was born that way. Nothing less and nothing more. It's as natural as me breathing. Not that I am any longer, mind you."

He stopped on his tracks, almost lost in thought. In the pitch white place, he was the true centre.

"How very ironic." He murmured after awhile, a wave of discomfort shaking his body. "I had always wished to go before him... but just the same always wished to be there to look after him. If my brother had only shown capabilities to look after himself I wouldn't be bothered, not at all... but... he went ahead and killed me. Stupid, really. Why did I let him?"

He flashed a dangerous look but it was all intended to himself.

And then he chuckled.

"Who is the real omniscient one between us?" he asked as he stared again with that humorous yet challenging look in his eyes, "As an all-knowing, per se, I know the next steps that will happen to my brother right after that little incident between us. You, know the beginning till the end. I know how it began... I have an accurate deduction of how it will end... but will you truly accept the accusation that you are the one weaving everything? Or _just like me,_ you just watch things unfold before your eyes? Oh, yes, I don't just watch. Never mind, it's not hard to deduce for I for one knew my brother quite well. He wouldn't... mind. Me dying in his hands would be his greatest honour. Oh, you think I'm bluffing?"

Mycroft smiled.

"Then perhaps you are the one who do not know my brother best. No, he will have difficulties with the criminal case but nothing he cannot survive about. Then there's that problem with his drug habits—his little bit of sentiment for me would drive him right there— but I had already assigned his best friend to look after him and since he listens well, or argue well with the man that's all he needs. He does not need me, actually. Come to think of it. My passing would just mean another body he could whip at the morgue."

He raised his brows, looking a bit disappointed. "I should have offered my brain to the medical society for the improvement of that side. You know they need all the help they can get. In fact, I did."

He looked thoughtful for a second, before going back and staring ahead again, the smile on his face ever appearing.

"I could really care less of what's going to happen to the gap I left in my position. It's a rather large hole for just anyone to fill in and it'll take them thirty-nine people to do so. Half of that number goes solely to focusing on my brother, they don't need that. Basically that's how my life back there has evolved. Oh yes, I pretty am much satisfied. No, I don't need anything. I have my umbrella... unless you care to send me my sedan? It's rather tiring this... _leg exercise_ , if you know what I mean. Exhaustion is mind over matter to me after all so... What's that?"

He frowned for a moment, and then shrugged. Before turning his back and walking, walking to that endless abyss and away... his back disappearing and merging with everything that is white.

Then there was that bark of a dog and Mycroft Holmes suddenly turned—and in the wisp of whiteness, he was gone.

At the same time a harsh voice shouting in that empty space—a very familiar voice—

 _"Try and die on me Mycroft and I'll kill you!"_ Sherlock Holmes threatened somewhere on the other side.

* * *

_- **TBC-**_

A/N: _Mycroft's side of the world! The second side to be continued!_

_Whose side? Bit obvious, really ;p_

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	2. Sherlock's Side

***The Other Side***

**By: _WhiteGloves_**

_Chapter 2_

_"Death is but another journey."_

**Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

_Sherlock's side._

* * *

His brain must've died. It was impossible to think. The only thing registering in was how hazy... how dazed... how painful... His arms hurt like crazy. It was impossible to know... to _think_...

Then, a voice. Harsh. Irritate. Demanding. Familiar... resonating at the very centre of his mind.

_"Don't be smart."_

"...shut up..." he whispers.

_"Are you really so obvious?"_

"...shut UP..."

_"You've always been so stupid."_

"...you..."

" _I am the smart one."_

"..." he breaths hard.

_"...give me the list..."_

"...no..."

_"...give it."_

"...not you..."

_"The list, Sherlock!"_

"Not you!" he shouts—

**[Sound of gunshot]**

"... _no_...!"

**[More gunshot]**

"NOT YOU!"

[...]

_"I'll always be there for you."_

**[DEAFENING SILENCE]**

_Sherlock._

"..."

**[Ambulance ringing]**

_Sherlock...!_

**[someone shouting]**

_SHERLOCK!_

His eyes snapped open, daze, panic stricken... wild.

He could feel the strain in his limp body. Could feel his limbs too sore. There was difficulty in his breathing. His chest was tight. Immediate response of his mind was slow, even for him. He didn't know where he was. Only just. It was obvious even before he had time to think.

Hospital _._ He'd been there before. Many times in fact.

He blinked and strained his eyes. His world was tumbling on his gaze. Swirling. Doubling. His eyes started to droop...

Then like gunshot too close on his ears he woke up, much awake than ever. He exhaled as mounting pain hit his body.

There was something he had to remember but his Mind Palace was still allowing no entry.

Something he had to remember... _always something..._

"You're awake."

Sherlock turned his head to his right, his eyesight improving. There was his best friend John Watson sitting by the nearby chair, clad in his black jacket and a definite glum look on his face. His hands were tightly closed together, his shoulders hunched. His expression too readable. John was always an open book.

Sherlock stared at him fixedly, trying to take his appearance detail by detail so as not to miss... miss everything because his sight was still poor but... was it his eyesight doubling or John's expression says someone died?

John was always _dramatic_ with his expressions anyway.

"John." Sherlock blinked as he uttered the name, making sure it wasn't all in his head.

He felt the doctor's eyes boring on him but also took note how John would look down his fingers every now and then.

Sherlock's mind whizzed—anxiety, forbidding anger, if possible... _dread?_

Sherlock looked up the ceiling and took in an inhale of breath that somewhat cleared his mind.

"What am I doing here?" he asked in his low voice.

"You're asking me that?" there was a sharp edge on John Watson's voice that told Sherlock he was on the wrong and he, John Watson was the opposite. But John was always the opposite. For some reason he had to be the _opposite._ Unfortunately, just that at the moment, Sherlock couldn't remember _why._

Brain was still non-functioning. He refrained from answering.

"How long have I been here?" he asked instead.

"You don't remember... well, that's lucky. Maybe you'll be happier there in your blank state."

"You're not helping."

"I don't plan to. Not this time."

Sherlock shut his eyes. Mind palace was working slowly. Still slipping though. John was lucky he, Sherlock was in no shape or he would have retorted a better answer. And his lips were dry. He shut his eyes. Did they cut his morphine?

"I get it." He murmured weakly, trying to see if John would give him a break as he tried to travel his eyes, cursing the lights to burn itself off when—

"Do you?" John sounded more than _snappish_ ; he sounded accusative that made the bedridden detective glance back painfully, "Do you know what you've done?"

"Course' I know what I've done and even if I don't remember I would still have the same answer because you're acting like _that_ again! Always the same reaction!" Sherlock snapped in turn, unable to conceal his discomfort as he threw an angry look at his best friend, whom, by now, he's considering to call otherwise. Couldn't John see how uncomfortable he was with his brain still half dead?

"No you don't know—because you don't care, Sherlock—!"

"What 'care'? What am I suppose to care about!? I barely made it out of my head, you think I have time to care of what you're about to say when you obviously don't want to say it?! If irony could kill—"

"Shut up, Sherlock!"

"You shut up, John!" If only he was allowed to—

"No, I'm not gonna shut up!" The medical doctor's eyes pierced the consulting detective's and there was much more than anger in his eyes. "I'm going to tell you exactly what happened until you realize how everything's too late—"

"Too late—for what? For my drug abuse—? I've already told you abstaining from it won't keep me alive! It's not immortality!" He gave a short cough as he finally forced his body into a sitting position, mindless of the gruff pulling of the strings attached to his arms. The absence of John's voiced concern over his actions made him throw the doctor another look. John would usually fuss about those, being the great friend he was.

Instead, he found John staring at him with red eyes. Eyes that haven't slept for days. Eyes hiding grave concerns. Sherlock frowned as his senses read his friend's features.

"John—"

" _Not immortality,_ you say..." John sniffed but the hard features on his face didn't disappear, "I guess you cannot justify that anymore knowing how an immortality rate went downhill just now. Because you OD'd."

Sherlock blinked in confusion and when he's confuse he gets angry.

"What are you talking about?" he snapped. Was John having mind palace problems too? Because  
Sherlock could swear his brain was much faster than John's no matter how many times he OD'd because of how slow the progress of their conversation was.

Then John Watson's face paled. Sherlock read _death_ unmistakably.

"Do you remember how you disappeared from Baker Street for a week? How we kept looking for you but couldn't track you down? Nobody, not one of us, can track down _the_ Sherlock Holmes when he doesn't want to be found. There's no case at hand, no leads. God knows where you were."

"Go straight to the point, John." The detective's jaw tightened as John's red eyes burned.

"Nobody could find you. Except one. He could always find you. He did. He always outsmarted you."

John cleared his throat as a huge lump blocked his words. His eyes fell on his tight hands.

Sherlock had seen enough to make something out of the signals but his mind was rejecting it. He stared at his friend warily, waiting for him to finish his words yet somehow his Mind Palace was working on its own. He already knew—

"What happened, John?" Dumb. He was asking a dumb question.

"Mycroft found you, that's what happened." The doctor eyed him again, his burning eyes dying down, melting into this look of total _lost._ "He found you alone and you... _you shot him._ "

Sherlock's mind shut down at how fast it suddenly found pieces of his jagged memory to verify the story—Mycroft standing in front of him, Mycroft speaking, Mycroft reaching forward and him falling down after a gunshot—

Sherlock didn't feel a thing but something sickening was circulating in his stomach that wanted out.

"They found him half dead." John went on, "You shot him, you know where? In the chest. Twice. Nobody lives through that. So don't expect him to." Sherlock's eyes found the doctor's.

John didn't look very forgiving.

"I don't know what kind of monster you put him in your Mind Palace but Mycroft deserves better than that, Sherlock."

"Where's he?" the consulting detective found himself asking. John looked down his hands again.

"He's dead."

"No he's not. You're lying."

The two exchange looks—and then the next thing, Sherlock Holmes was wildly pulling the strings attached to his arms, jumped down the bed and wrestling with John Watson out of the room.

"Get out of the way, John—!"

"Sherlock—!"

"You're lying and you know it now out of my way!"

It was probably his weakened state or was it his lack of morphine but the small doctor was able to manhandle Sherlock like he was a piece of sack as he gripped Sherlock by the arm and made him sit on the chair with their foreheads almost colliding—

And John spoke so softly it was nearly chilly.

"Listen here, Sherlock—"

But he wouldn't. _Not this time._ With strength that came from who knows where, the detective shove the doctor away and tore his way towards the corridor. He found D.I Lestrade there talking to a nurse—their eyes locked as Sherlock made his way towards him and shook his collar—demanding his brother.

Lestrade said something but Sherlock didn't hear it. He was busy looking at the clipboard bearing his name while the nurse holding it said something he couldn't comprehend—then suddenly Sherlock bolted and threw himself on the elevator a step close—seeing exactly the faces of John and Greg calling him back but they could wait later.

He knows where Mycroft is.

The ICU was pretty much the only place that registered on his mind upon his seemingly erratic walk. He held onto the wall, feeling light headed with knees wobbling every now and then.

Then he saw the room and entered. Was it his imagination or were people standing guard outside or somebody—a woman with auburn hair—was there watching him? Allowing him entry? He couldn't be sure.

The only thing that registered to his mind as he came in was the long blank sound of the machine's beep.

John was right. It was too late.

He blacked out even before he could take another step.

* * *

_- **TBC-**_

A/N: _Both sides revealed! Whose side will prevail at the last?_

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	3. The Void

***The Other Side***

**By: _WhiteGloves_**

The inevitable meeting! Fancy another chapter?

**Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

_The Void._

* * *

Mycroft was in a jet plane. _The_ very same jet plane—one very distinct to his memory.

He was seated by the window overlooking such whiteness with a deep set look in his eyes. He was clad in his dark navy blue three piece coat this time, with his purple tie he wears for important occasions and dark gloves holding on to his umbrella firmly. His brow was furrowed, chin set down the back of his right hand leaning by the umbrella and thinking.

_Thinking._

If there ever was anything vaster than the pureness outside his window it was his mind. Because even in the blankness of space, Mycroft Holmes could see _everything._

Time was not of the essence and the only thing that could spoil the serenity was the man himself whose eyes would suddenly spark at a memory, would sit up straight as if remembering something very dire, and then would hunch back and grip his umbrella; continuing his silent vigil of eternal recline.

Mycroft would have sunk another level of thinking for that was how his mind was—a bottomless pit— had it not been for something that seemed to drop itself out of nowhere—a figure in the shape of a man had plopped himself on the opposite chair of Mycroft, surprising him. Mycroft raised his eyes up as well as his brows to survey the intruder—and then gave out a loud sigh of exasperation as he saw who it was.

 _"Good Lord._ Tell me you're not really here."

Mycroft locked eyes with that of Sherlock Holmes who was smiling at him quite disturbingly with his eyes reduce to slits, his smile reaching his ears—the very smile he would give had he seen a criminal in the act of escaping red-handed and letting him because he was _boring_ to follow.

And the detective put his fingers together in a familiar fashion.

"Hello, _brother."_ He started not wiping the smile off his face, "miss me?"

Mycroft shifted on his chair uncomfortably and leaned back, eyes on the younger Holmes.

"No, Sherlock, I won't be returning." He then said quietly, as if understanding the very appearance of his brother there, knowing in fact that the universe was working its miracles and calling him back. But he was Mycroft Holmes and he could outwit anyone, be it the Universe or whatsis. "Get off." He looked outside the window wondering when his flight would move on.

"Escaping, are we?"

"No, no... just too tired... being around too many... _goldfish._ "

"I think this is one of those moments when they say, _'Don't follow the light'."_

"Oh yes, you would know, wouldn't you?" Mycroft shot his brother a look of complete interest this time, "Having seen so many in your lifetime at such a young age. But you've ever been the stubborn one, Sherlock. You never follow _anything."_

"I do, too."

"Who? Mummy? Oh yes, you're terrified of her."

"And you aren't?"

The two exchange challenging looks till the older brother narrowed his eyes and give out a sigh.

"Get off, Sherlock," he repeated, resuming his attention to the window of whiteness, "There's nothing you can say that can change my mind, now get along and be gone."

There was silence and for awhile Mycroft had begun drifting to his inner thoughts when Sherlock spoke again.

"Don't you find it odd that it should be this particular _plane?"_ it was Sherlock's usual voice of inquiry mixed with disdain added with feigned ignorance, _"Why this particular jet plane, brother? And of all times—that?"_

Sherlock looked pointedly down the floor where Mycroft followed with his eyes and saw there on the floor—a piece of paper with scribbles of elements too familiar to the two. Sherlock gave him a smile when the older brother looked up sombrely.

"Of course," Mycroft turned his full attention to Sherlock again, "this is one of those moments... I regret the most."

"Regret." The Sherlock opposite him said with fingertips touching and eyebrows rose, "That's a big thing, isn't it?"

"It was all my fault..."

"You always think everything's your fault, Mycroft. Always the responsible one."

"Why shouldn't I be? _I know everything."_

"Knowing is not a crime. If you know your excuses." He smirked, then Sherlock's eyes dimmed as he continued, "You shouldn't always feel responsible for my actions, you know. You should just stick to being all-knowing without doing anything—"

"Oh yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" it was Mycroft's turn to raise an eyebrow.

Sherlock flashed a smile. "You're right."

The two gazed each other for a second, before both felt the engine getting to life, making the older Holmes sit upright and gaze outside the window. For some reason there was too much light outside. He knew it was time.

"You should hurry up and get off. It's not your ride, brothermine. _Not this time."_

He stared at Sherlock who remained immobile on his chair.

 _"Get off."_ It was demand as he frowned furiously at his younger brother who blinked at him and inclined his head on one side with a tone full of wonder in his voice as he said—

"If you let me get out I would. You're the one clinging on me, like _usual_. Brother dear."

A dawning comprehension struck Mycroft's expression as he gazed at the man before him. And as if understanding what he needed to do, Mycroft shut his eyes close and leaned back on his chair. With a deep sigh, he opened them.

Sherlock was gone.

The jet plane started moving with its steady engine too silent. The bright light outside was blinding; it was seen by how it engulfed the whiteness outside. If Mycroft wasn't looking properly, he was sure it was ready to absorb even the plane he was on. But then again he knew it was meant to happen.

Staring blankly at the window, the older Holmes awaited his journey to begin.

When something in his chest pocket vibrated vigorously.

Frowning at the disruption, Mycroft fished the object from his pocket and found his phone and on it Sherlock Holmes' name was flashing for an incoming call. He opted to throw the phone down the floor but like instinct, his fingers dotted on the answer button and his hand automatically slammed it on his ear at the same time he felt the plane go on full speed on the roadway.

"What do—?"

 _"Get off that plane, Mycroft!"_ the voice of Sherlock Holmes was much different than the other one he was talking to just now. The voice sounded angry, violent—demanding. _"Get off!"_

Mycroft's answer was silence. He knew the plane had left its course a second ago. Knew it was too late. He took some air and let it out in the heaviest manner. Something in his chest was aching painfully.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock's voice had gotten softer and quieter for some reason. And then he breathed, _"I need you."_

Mycroft closed his eyes and traced the outline of his creased forehead with his free hand. It had been a long time since he heard those words, like a long forgotten, lost memory. It made him uncomfortable. But like the usual, he has his ready answer like a habitual response whenever Sherlock needs it.

"Where are you?"

The jet plane was no longer in sight.

* * *

The heaviest of sensation struck Mycroft Holmes in the dark.

Severe pain. Dull aches. Breathing. Living.

It was the call of life.

Yet at the moment he wished it wouldn't hit him so agonizingly.

He opened his eyes with so much muster of strength. He couldn't make heads or tails of everything for a moment, not in a million years did he feel his head so empty. He closed his eyes again, wanting the beat in his heart to stop being erratic. There was that terrible sound of beeping so close to him. He wished somebody would shut it down or he would do so.

Again, he tried to open his eyes as the understanding of being in a hospital came clear and chunks of memories started returning. Bless him with his brain functioning on its own without his interference and so he focused his strength in opening his eyes. God, his eyelids were as stubborn as him. He would have give up doing so had it not been for his senses alerting him of a person's presence.

Mycroft came fully awake as he recognized that man staring at him from a nearby chair at the right foot of his bed. There was no mistaking those dark unruly locks or that sharp edged mouth or uniquely outlined face—it was the first face that flashed in his memory bank.

The Holmes brothers stared at each other.

Mycroft swallowed hard, his frown coming with all the exerted efforts as he perceived something was wrong with his brother. Sherlock had sat up erect at Mycroft's first movement and had stared struck at his brother for a second.

A very slow reaction that Mycroft would remind him later.

Then Sherlock stood up and walked towards the bed—stopped and then swayed toward the door as if uncertain of what to do next—then turned his head here and there in a sort of confusion with expression of mild lost and absence of mind with no full control of his faculties.

And Mycroft closed his eyes with a deep sigh of relief to himself.

_For god's sake, Sherlock._

* * *

-TBC-

A/N: Both are just happy to see the other :) Last chapter to wrap up!

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. The Otherside

 

_"Caring is not an advantage, but when it's between us, it's somewhat like a change."_

_/Holmes brothers/_

**Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

_Chapter 4: The Other Side_

* * *

It was a mark of how _severe_ his condition was that even after a week Mr. Mycroft Holmes, _thought by his private circles to be the most powerful man in Britain_ —yet still _shootable—_ found himself confined in the four walls of his house in Pall Mall with an intravenous fluid still attached by his wrist, courtesy of the combined force of the insistent know-it-all doctor in the form of John Watson, his no-nonsense secretary who waves her efficiency at that very moment and who was currently called _Sabine,_ and for a change—someone so obstinate to listen that _he shouldn't be at the same room as he—his brother—_ who in Mycroft's opinion, had started to show some _care_ in the most uncharacteristic way.

_In short, nuisance._

On his own command, with wee bit of coercion, Mycroft was allowed to sit by his bed provided with a small bed tray table and most important documents on his hand. With a week of rest, he had had enough dull moments and threatened to start a war if not given what he asked for—something mind boggling and _challenging_. The Prime Minister and his secretaries were notified of his condition but that doesn't stop them from sending in territorial wages, terrorist sightings and the sorts. All music to Mycroft's ear. And that was how he was found that fine afternoon, inspecting one particular letter amongst many with a curt frown on his still pale face with the seal of French empire when a loud plopping sound surprised him. He shot a quick look up only to find his younger brother comfortably sitting by the single armchair facing him with the most amused look.

The older brother gave an inward sigh as he threw his head back in exasperation and gave an interjection. _Why the scene was a déjà vu of his 'dream'._ He had decided to call it that.

"What are you doing here?" he asked testily.

"You know how I like to watch you suffer." Sherlock smiled as he surveyed his brother with the keenest interest of a scientist observing his specimen before pausing for a bit, and went on saying, "You look terrible."

" _Middle age_." Mycroft said airily as he started gathering the papers on his table and piling it up completely, "You know you're not supposed to be here when I'm working."

"What work? You can barely walk—"

"I'm in recovery, _not invalid_."

"Then perhaps I should remind you the hair strand difference?"

Mycroft glowered at him and by the way how a twitch on Sherlock's lips threatened to break into a smile he was taking pleasure in it. And Mycroft realized in truth, that his brother was truly enjoying it. Oh great. His brother has found something to busy him with when Mycroft wanted less attention, especially with his hands _on these papers._ So Mycroft, with some chary reach of hand, turned the papers downward the table and place careful hands on top of it, pen on hand.

Sherlock's eyes flashed.

 _"Why don't you crumple and eat it? Just to make sure?"_ he spat tersely.

Mycroft plastered a smile on his face.

"We both know you have a knack of seeing things when you want to, Sherlock, and these papers aren't for your sightseeing."

"And we both know I won't see anything if you don't want me to."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned his head on the side to distract himself while Sherlock glowered on the chair.

"You really don't want me here, do you?" came the younger Holmes' casual observation, fingertips playing at the arm of the couch he was on. He watched Mycroft turn his head back in mild amusement, before the older Holmes flashed him a fake smile.

"And I thought I'm the hospitalized one with a slow functioning brain—"

"—you sure it's not because I shot you—?"

"— _twice_ , in fact—"

"—I failed to count—"

"Oh yes, with your head all fuzzy—no Sherlock—" he shook his head when the consultant detective tried to take his turn impatiently, "— _you'd shoot anyone in the vicinity_ _with disregard if it's the Queen, for godsake—"_

 _"—_ that's beside the point—" Sherlock shrugged.

"And the actual point is?"

Sherlock hesitated with the scrutinizing look Mycroft was giving him and with an uncomfortable gesture the sleuth raised his right hand to his lips, his fingers in slapdash that showed great agitation.

"Tell me why's the French ambassador sending you coded messages?" his inquiry made the older Holmes close his eyes and shake his head at his brother's sudden change of topic. "Clearly that's the emblem of the French empire and I can see his signature— it's very unique see— with the flourishing end of his 'n's and 'e' in the almost too obvious _Bermann._ And the address is almost jumping with that _La Résidence de Fr—"_

" _Sherlock_!" Mycroft looked in annoyance at his brother as his grasp crumpled the documents, "Keep your eyes to yourself."

"It's my business to know." Was the abrupt reply as the younger Holmes looked sideways, distracted. Then almost automatically he turned to his brother again with mouth opening and closing. He licked it with a pause and then surveyed his brother who was watching him with raised eyebrows.

"I didn't… _mean it_." He pressed his lips tight, eyes suddenly focusing on the linen of Mycroft's bed. There was a sudden cloud in his eyes that Mycroft couldn't help but notice. Still, Mycroft let the silence fall for he himself does not wish to break it. And so it fell. Deafeningly between the two.

"I never meant to harm you. _Never._ "

Sherlock's voice was soft yet the full intensity of its meaning too heavy and crystal clear in the ringing silence.

Mycroft could only look at his hands holding his fountain pen and then at the outline of his IV string. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his seat.

_"I uh… I… am… sorry, brother."_

Mycroft met his brother's eyes for a second, and looked away pointedly, eyes getting a little moist as he cleared his throat. His brother had refused to say another word and another most ringing silence fell between them. The most uncomfortable one if one might observe. If it was other individuals sharing this most heartfelt apology, there would have been hugging and crying. But it was not and there could not be two lesser people in the world that would do such common thing in the face of a family crisis other than the brothers present in the room.

Yet Mycroft knew his eyes glistened for a second, the hard features on his expression that he had been so used to for many years turning gentle, but it was not meant to last long.

"Then maybe next time…" he quietly said after a sigh, "I'll dodge the bullet." He shrugged and looked back with his usual placid smirk, making Sherlock smile briefly and turn his eyes on the linen again. But Mycroft wasn't done yet.

"Or maybe you can to tell me there will be no more ' _next time_ '?" he said quite seriously, his eyes unblinking, "No more _lists,_ no more _back alleys or uninhabited houses_ and guns? Because you know Sherlock, no matter how much you push me away— I'll always, _always be there for you._ But if you plan to shoot away any _illusions_ you see after each dosage then that might not be the case. I'm quite certain of that."

Sherlock wiped his lips with his right hand, eyes on the brother who looked beseechingly back at him.

 _And Sherlock gave a brief nod._ It was with the slightest movement of his head, but he nodded. Making Mycroft stare and close his eyes in relief. It was an improvement. Sherlock may not always keep his word when it comes to this delicate business, but his response right now was like a ray of light; brighter than anything Mycroft had seen. Not even the one in his dream.

Raising his right hand on his heart in wonder, the older Holmes gave a satisfied sigh.

"Well, what do you know? Seems like I have a heart, after all."

The Holmes brothers exchange looks and there was a sudden awkward yet mutual atmosphere between the two.

Till Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Heart...thought you didn't have it in the first place. My bad." His evil smirk returned, making his older brother roll his eyes and put all the documents away on the briefcase while Sherlock, upon seeing his brother's movements, stood up and helped to remove the bed tray.

Mycroft shut the briefcase close and turned to his brother.

"Pass me a glass of water, will you?"

Sherlock did.

"And an extra pillow?"

Sherlock was much oblige and even helped place it behind his brother.

"How about peeling an apple, Sherlock?"

"There are no apples here—"

"Buy it."

" _Don't be predictable, Mycroft!"_ came the usual snappish reply of the younger one, making Mycroft chuckle as he leaned his back on his extra pillow, his eyes fully only on his brother.

"You don't need to worry about me, Sherlock, you know as much as I that I am not that fragile."

"Clearly." Sherlock had remained standing beside the bed, both hands inside his pocket, eyes also lingering to his brother, "That's exactly what I've been telling myself for years and now here we are."

"It won't happen again." Mycroft assured him, his tone serious, eyes narrowing. "Now get along before you grow a beard on me."

"Nope, I'm planning to be your sore thumb today. You're expecting visitors, aren't you? The Prime Minister perhaps?" he knew by how Mycroft did not let go of his favourite pen, by how his brother kept the briefcase close by and _obviously_ , how he checked his watch even if it was only once. He deduced the Prime Minister by the number of Secret Service personnel post outside in civilian clothes. All were telling.

Mycroft smiled. "Concerned about the country now are you?"

_"Oh, who knows, I might become useful."_

"Sudden interest for the Queen?"

_"I have free time."_

"Political intrigues under your hem now?"

_"I'm used to scandals."_

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he paused, and a nerve twitched at the side of his mouth.

"It's okay, Sherlock, I'm quite safe." He said finally and smiled, making Sherlock flush the colour of red and to stand in his full height in show of pure embarrassment.

"Right." He interjected, turning his body and swaying back to his brother adding, "For your information—I wasn't worried. J-just responsible _._ Everybody feels that. I do have a heart, you know, _unlike_ you." He raised his chin in the most defensive manner.

"Adding insult to injury." Mycroft smirked and watched his brother turn to his heel and headed for the door. "You'll come visit me again, won't you?" there was a hopeful tone in his voice.

Sherlock paused as he opened the door. Mycroft was so used to his brother that he was expecting quite a nasty remark—but what he got, was completely truly _unexpected._

" _I'll bring apples."_

And closed the door after him.

Mycroft gazed at the door for quite a while, his eyes unblinking, and his expression full of wonder. Was it real? What he saw? And what he saw to come? It was like seeing his brother in a whole new light; a new Sherlock whose mouth does not snap, his attention undivided, his temper in control when dealing with his older brother because of their past resentments and disagreements? He has gone quite used to the other Sherlock whose only actions were for himself. Somebody like a stranger, indifferent to his only brother. Not that Mycroft couldn't take half of the blame; truthfully he was the one who pushed his brother to the boundary of someone who could not feel. At least, he was a major part of it.

Not thinking of what it could be, if Sherlock Holmes was somebody _who cared_ from the beginning. Not callous, not unresponsive, and not the addict he grew up to be.

The other side of Sherlock after all things have been said and done.

Mycroft smiled to himself as he looked down his hands feeling much lighter than when he first woke up in his coma. He felt much energized, much relieved and much more... _happy to be alive._

This side of Sherlock, he decided as he closed his eyes, this side wasn't bad at all.

* * *

**_-THE END- :)_ **

**_Thanks for reading!_ **


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